“Dear Mariner, why aim at me?
What is it that I’ve done?”
To this his frightened buddies holler,
“All things under the sun!”

“Come follow me,” the Mariner orders,
then he disappears.
Sylvester rises from his cushion
counter to his fears.

Intrigued he leaves and hurries to
the beach beyond a dune.
Above the sandy crest appears,
as if on cue, the moon.

Sylvester labors to the crest,
descends the sandy slope
and finds the Mariner who waits
as solemn as a pope.

“What are you doing? What’d I do?”
Sylvester begs, “Tell me.”
The tempted Mariner responds
by pointing to the sea.

“You didn’t do enough,” he warns,
then dashes down the shore.

Suspecting he may be a boon
Sylvester smiles at the moon,
pursues his visitor.

They lope along the lathered line,
Sylvester never far
behind the Mariner who crashes
through a paddy of reeds and splashes
out across a bar.

“Slow down!” Sylvester fulminates,
“I’ll have a cardiac.”
And still the tireless Mariner flees,
not once does he look back.

A beat before Sylvester drops
the Mariner stops and cries,
“You see it? There!” He aims his arm
to where the sun will rise.

Sylvester staggers to his side
exhausted, “What’d you see?”
“Too much,” he answers, “far too much
for anyone but me

because,” he now reveals, “I’m
an image mirroring Man.

His brighter half which he defaces,
surreptitiously embraces,
cowers from yet always chases—
Catch me if you can.”

“I can’t!” And so the Mariner,
through sympathy or guile,
defers by recommending, “Then
perhaps we’ll walk a while.”

“And talk,” Sylvester adds as they
begin to ambulate
beside the sea which whispers to
the apprehensive druggie, ‘You
will soon learn of your fate.’
            TO READ MORE…
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           ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Stephen Kryska is a native of Michigan.
After a stint in the Air Force his creativity
found expression in the advertising field.
He retired as an information technologist.
Now Stephen enjoys his golden years
composing country and gospel songs,
besides delving into video graphics.